Stolen Time
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: Five years. Five years of nothing. Five years of wishing. Five years of agony, of defeat. Five years, and then that one moment of hope. Angst/Drama. Nick/Greg. Alternating POV. Slash.
1. Chapter One: Weeks

**Author's Note:** Hello all. Well, I'm sorry to say, but this might be the last story I'm going to write. I dunno – I've lost interest in CSI. Lost interest in, dare I say it, The Love as well. I can honestly say that I'll try my hardest to finish this story, because I owe it to everyone to actually work hard for one story, at least.

Angst/Drama. Nick/Greg. Alternating POV. Slash.

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks a bunch to Amanda. Not only just for editing this story, but also for encouraging me the whole way through my writing journey.

Another tremendous 'thank you!' goes out to Natasha (or Sara's Girl) for beta'ing many of my stories (including this one), and all your suggestions truly did help me become a better writer.

**Disclaimer: **I never have owned Nick, Greg, or anyone mentioned in any of my stories. Kind of lame, but it's the truth.

**Summary: **Five years. Five years of nothing. Five years of wishing. Five years of agony, of defeat. Five years, and then that one moment of hope.

_**Stolen Time**_

"_There is one kind of robber whom the law does not strike at, and who steals what is most precious to men: time."_

_~Napoleon I_

**Weeks …**

Nick sat alone, his head resting against the wall. He felt worn out, exhausted, empty. People walked up and down the hallway, each one giving him a sympathetic glance, but no one stopped to talk to him. They knew what he was going through and they didn't know how to help him. No one did. It didn't matter anyways, though – no one could help him. He was beyond help. Beyond grief. Beyond tears or any sort of release. He was just a shell at this point – a living body without a soul.

Grissom stepped out into the hall, nodded at him, and then stepped back into his office. Nick got to his feet slowly and followed him into the quiet and dark room. Grissom was standing behind his desk, and he signaled for Nick to take a seat.

He sat, waiting. His listless eyes rested on Grissom, who was staring down at him. Abruptly, Grissom picked up a piece of paper from the desktop.

"You're resigning?" he asked, his face not betraying any emotion. Nick could only nod in response.

"Nick … are you sure that's the right thing to do?" Grissom inquired, his voice still low, composed. Almost caring.

Nick swallowed and licked his dry lips. "I can't stay here."

Grissom sighed and sat across from him, gently putting the paper down on the desk. He cleared his throat before saying, "We're all going through this, Nicky."

Nick's mind burned with anger for a second – _we're all going through this … _there was something wrong with that statement. No, they weren't _all_ going through this. Only he knew the true and full amount of what had been lost. Of what could never be regained. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down.

"We're all missing Greg," Grissom continued, his voice becoming almost a whisper.

_Greg _…

Nick hadn't heard his name spoken aloud for weeks. Not since the search had ended. Not since hope had been lost.

_We're all missing Greg_ …

His mind was almost paralyzed with all the things he could say in response to that:

"_I know everyone misses him, but I miss him the most."_

"_If I can't live without him, why haven't I died yet? If we're all going through this, shouldn't we all be dead?"_

"_The day he went missing, a part of me died. You all can't possibly be going through the same torture that I am."_

But all Nick said was, "I know, but I just … can't. I can't do this anymore, Gris. I need to get away. Away from all the memories. Away from everything."

Grissom's ice blue eyes pierced his own coffee brown ones as he asked, "Away from everyone?"

Nick could only shake his head, his anger abating and then giving way to the pure exhaustion that was settling into his limbs once again.

He was no stranger to being horribly tired, but this time, things were different. This time, he couldn't sleep. Every day, he would lie awake in his bed, listening to the world passing by outside his heavily curtained window. Alone in the house he used to share with Greg, he would wish for the pain to leave him, but that prayer wasn't going to be answered. He was alone with the agony that was eating him from the inside out. From that suffering, there would be no rescue.

"Nick, I can't make you reconsider," Grissom said, his voice reverting to its normal decibel level, "but I wish you wouldn't throw everything away. Greg wouldn't want you to do that. He would say something along the lines of holding everyone closer at this time in your life. You need them. You need us."

Nick stared blankly at Grissom before sighing heavily. He knew that Grissom was right, even though he was sure that he couldn't stay here anymore.

Grissom picked up the piece of paper once again and looked at Nick pointedly.

"You can throw it out …" Nick whispered. He stood and started towards the door to the office when Grissom's voice stopped him.

"Take the rest of the day off, Nick," he said. Nick stopped for a second and then continued out of the room.

---

Nick was back in his house. The house that seemed too big now; too silent, too empty. It was too devoid of life, even though two people used to live here, and now all that was left was a person who felt dead inside.

The living room was in complete and utter disarray. Greg's Xbox games were littered all over the floor, empty beer cans tipped over on the coffee table, and the couch's A&M blanket and pillows were tossed all over. The kitchen was no better, though. A huge mound of dirty dishes was piled up in the sink, the microwave door was open, and every cupboard was also ajar, along with the floor looking like it needed a good sweeping.

The bathroom was just as bad, if not worse. The sink was grungy, empty toilet paper rolls scattered across the black tile floor, and the mirrors were streaked with grime. In the bedroom, where Nick was currently located, everything seemed to get ten times worse. Clothes, both clean and dirty, were thrown onto the floor, the curtains covering the glass patio doors were down, along with all the other heavy curtains, and more empty beer bottles could be found taking up space on the bedside table to the left of the queen size bed.

The would-be white duvet cover (that was now really an off shade of white from a lack of washing) was bunched up at the foot of the bed, and the sheets (which were in need of cleaning, too) were twisted and mangled.

Without Greg, Nick had no real reason to do anything. Without Greg, he was bare, just like the house.

Leaning up against the pale wooden backboard, Nick's hand trembled as he looked at a newspaper from two weeks ago. The headline read: 'Search Dies Down for Missing CSI.' A large picture of Greg's smiling and cheerful face looked up at Nick, tearing his heart into a million shattered, jagged pieces. Even though the picture was black and white, Nick could still see a twinkle in Greg's frozen eyes. His eyes always seemed to glimmer and shine, no matter what fresh hell he'd just experienced

Nick forced himself to read the article again, but nothing seemed to catch hold in his brain except for random and disjointed phrases:

_Greg Sanders was last seen on 21__st__ Street South, walking towards his home …_

… _police baffled._

_No ransom call._

_After two weeks of looking and a lack of tips, all leads have dried up._

_Sanders is presumed dead._

Presumed dead … the words echoed in Nick's mind, almost making him want to scream, just to hear something else. Anything else except those words, those words that had condemned Greg to death.

Presumed dead by who, exactly? Hopefully … hopefully not by Greg's friends, his family … the people who knew and loved him. Those people couldn't have given up hope already. It had only been a month since he'd been kidnapped. Thirty-one days. That was too short a time to give up.

Even with those indignant thoughts swirling around Nick's overtired brain, he knew he was wrong.

Even Greg's best friends had already given up hope. The people who had worked with him for years, the people who knew him best had stopped hoping that the kidnapper would call, asking for a ransom.

A notice had gone up at work, and despite Nick's best efforts, he couldn't ignore its words: There was to be a memorial service for Greg Sanders next Saturday at the church down the street. Everyone was welcome to attend. Donations could be made to a respectable organization, where Greg's parents had set up a fund that would give money to the only charity Greg ever contributed to – the humane society.

Nick wouldn't be attending.

He couldn't. He couldn't face everyone there. Everyone who would be acting as if it were Greg's funeral, even though (despite the lack of Greg's body) in a sense it was. Greg was no longer alive to the people at the Las Vegas crime lab. He was no longer alive to Sara, Grissom, Catherine, and Warrick. He was no longer alive to Nick, either.

All that was left was a vacant house filled with memories that made Nick want to scream in soul-searing agony. All that was left was a broken heart, a broken life.

If he could have had one thing (besides having Greg back), then he would wish that he could be where Greg was right now – even if it meant dying.

Nick was no longer afraid of death. Death frightened people, he thought, because there was still so much more to live for. There was always a new day and new opportunities that would never arise again. But when a person stops caring, when they stop looking forward to the dawn, then that's when they aren't afraid of death any longer.

He had long since stopped living because he no longer had anything to live for. Nick now hated his job; he couldn't withstand dealing with other people's untimely demises. He had also stopped communicating with his best friends – the people who were closer than family. Warrick hadn't only given up on finding Greg – he'd also stopped trying to get Nick to talk about what had happened. Sara, too, had had no luck with him, and now she didn't try either.

Nick's only light – Greg – had gone out, and now his life was excruciatingly dark, and he had no idea what to do.

In all honesty, what _could_ he do? There was no chance of moving on … he couldn't even cry, how could he even contemplate letting go of Greg? There also was no chance of finding him. The whole crime lab had been working on the case, and nothing could be found.

Nick had been lucky when he was rescued, minutes before death, locked in a plexi-glass box that would have become his coffin. Greg … there were no clues to follow for his case. There had been nothing left behind, no trace evidence, no fibers. It was as if he hadn't even been walking home at all.

A whisper had begun to circulate that he had just fled from his old life. Nick had even overheard some younger lab techs talking about how it was rumored that Greg had moved to Canada to work up at Fort McMurray on the rigs. If Nick had any humor left, he would have laughed long and hard at the thought of him working on an oil rig.

Sighing, Nick lowered the newspaper onto the empty spot beside him on the bed. A pang tweaked his heart cruelly as the realization hit him (yet again) that he was all alone here. No one else lived in the house anymore.

As the almost unendurable pain welled up inside him, he begged to be able to let it out, to cry, to grieve. Grieve for everything he'd lost; grieve for everything Greg had lost. All those plans they'd made together were now destroyed. Greg's future had been desecrated, never to be saved. He might not even be alive. Who knew – as Nick sat with his back to the headboard, Greg might be taking his final breaths somewhere. Blinking for the last time. Feeling his heart beating inside his chest, never to feel the sensation again.

Nick slid down onto the bed and turned over, burying his face into his pillow. The smell of the washing detergent filled his nose, and he was reminded of Greg again. He always insisted on having lilac-scented detergent.

Nick felt a wetness around his eyes and he raised his head, feeling the tears cascading rapidly down his cheeks, dropping thickly and generously onto the white pillow case.

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair, and there was nothing he could do about it. Greg was gone, lost to him, and he couldn't fix it. No one could.

Finally, he let the pain consume him as the tears continued to fall.


	2. Chapter Two: Months

**Months …**

Greg was shivering once more. He just couldn't help it – the basement was dark, dank, and freezing. No matter how many times he rubbed his arms, the goose bumps just wouldn't go away.

His stomach rumbled for what seemed like the thirtieth time that day, and Greg ignored it again. He could do nothing about how hungry he was or that he was thirsty beyond recognition. The feeling of his stomach growling and the fact that his mouth was dry and parched meant that he was still alive, and that was something.

Greg was still alive.

Somehow.

With a numb and frigid hand, he pressed a button on his wristwatch, the glowing green of the screen lighting up his surroundings for a second as he read the date: November 23rd. Greg's heart almost seemed to miss a beat – it had been two months since he had been kidnapped. Taken right off the sidewalk he'd been walking on.

Two months of being stuck in a basement with one bottle of water and one sandwich per day.

Two months of the unyielding dark, the incurable cold.

Two months of living in hell, to be blunt.

"If this is hell, then why isn't it hot?" Greg mumbled, his unbearably dry lips cracking as a small smile flitted across his face. Just as quick as it arrived, the smile was gone, leaving him feeling horrible.

He was going crazy. He knew it. He'd already started talking to himself, and now he was making terrible jokes, too. His mind was slipping and in this dark pit, away from everyone he loved, there would be no stopping his mind's progression into madness.

Greg felt his lips start to tremble, and he willed himself not to start crying. He'd cried for what felt like a week straight after he woke up in the basement. He'd screamed and railed at the person who was keeping him locked up, but to no avail. Every time his jailer came down to give him his water and sandwich, he would beg to be released, but the silent man said not a word.

Greg didn't even know why he was here. Why he was being detained, kept from the outside world. Did the kidnapper have a grudge against the Las Vegas crime lab, like when Nick was kidnapped, or did the man have a personal grudge against Greg?

In the back of his mind, he wondered if it had something to do with Demetrius James. Did the man hate Greg because he had hit Demetrius James in order to save himself and another person? Even though it seemed somewhat plausible, he doubted it. It was years after the Demetrius James scandal – too much time had passed. People moved on; they forgot, they forgave.

The fact still remained that Greg was at a loss as to why he was locked up in a basement, and he also had a shrewd suspicion that he would never find out, just like he knew he wouldn't be rescued.

A couple of weeks ago, his kidnapper had also brought down a newspaper article that had been written a short while after he had been abducted. Greg's eyes had brimmed over with tears when he read the headline, and he knew all hope was lost. He was presumed dead, even though he was still living.

Did everyone think he was deceased? More importantly, did Nick think that he was no longer alive? Greg's mind flared abruptly with pain, and he shook himself, waiting for it to dissipate. He had been getting random, crippling headaches lately, probably brought on by stress and dehydration.

His throat was also starting to close up, his breathing escalating. Greg fought with himself, trying to control his feelings, but he couldn't.

The tears began to fall again.

What he wouldn't give to see Nick once more. Once more before it was too late. Greg didn't know when 'too late' would arrive, but somewhere in his heart and mind, he wished it would be soon.

Greg wiped his eyes quickly as he straightened up along the chilly cement of the basement wall. Had he actually wished for death? Thinking back over his previous thoughts, he knew it to be true. He longed for death. It had to be better than this never-ending nightmare. Time was passing for everyone except him … sooner or later, Greg would only be a memory, and it wouldn't matter if he was alive or not.

He fell on to his side, drawing his knees up to his chest, his face buried in his arms, thinking of everyone on the outside: Nick, Sara, Warrick, Catherine, Grissom. He knew he would never see them again, and he wished he could have made his last day with them more meaningful.

He'd never told Nick exactly how much he meant to Greg, how Nick would always hold his heart.

He'd never told Sara that she was his best friend and that she gave the best advice in the whole world.

He'd never told Warrick that the man's hair was absurdly cool and that he should never get it cut.

Catherine … he'd never told her that she was like a mom to him and that she gave great hugs.

And last but not least, Grissom. Greg had never told him that he was the best teacher he'd ever had, and that he'd learned so much from him.

All his friends' faces seemed to hang suspended in Greg's mind, and slowly, one by one, they faded, leaving him completely alone.


	3. Chapter Three: Years

**Years …**

Greg's mind was a roaring, rushing blur. He tried to stop all the sounds, the feelings, but he couldn't. He tried to black out, to just stop living, but again – he couldn't. On command, his body wouldn't cease to exist. He couldn't stop experiencing everything that was happening to him. He'd already lasted for five years, why not just keep going? What could possibly be worse than what he'd already been through?

Underneath his terror, Greg could feel the floor of the vehicle shudder and tremble. He could hear the rumble of the van's engine, the vibrations from the movement of the vehicle wracking his body. He could also hear a song playing on the radio a couple feet ahead of him, and yet he couldn't understand a word of it. Outside the darkened vehicle, the wind passed the windows, making a shrill whistling noise. If Greg had any strength, he would have plugged his ears and begged for the sounds to go away.

He didn't even know who he'd beg. How could God have subjected him to this? What deity would have done this to a person? All Greg knew was that he would have begged anyone. He had no dignity left. Why bother pretending otherwise?

The van turned a corner, and Greg went sprawling into the cold metal side of the vehicle. He slammed his head with an ear-splitting crash, and from beneath his eyelids, he saw bright flashes of light erupt in the oasis of black.

He was crying now, too.

Unbearably warm tears were squeezing between his clenched eyelids and racing down his cheeks. When he reached up to wipe them away, Greg realized just how cold he was. His fingers felt like ice against his skin. Maybe his body really was wasting away … maybe this was the end.

Maybe he was being taken to be killed.

Greg stared up at the tinted window across from him, watching the glowing orbs of light from the street lamps issue past the moving vehicle. He saw everything but comprehended nothing.

Was his abductor taking him to a deserted place where he could end Greg's life? Maybe this truly was it – the final hurdle.

His freezing fingers rubbed the skin under his eyes, removing more tears, and then he pulled his knees up to his body, feeling his ribs jutting through his torn and ragged hoodie. He shut his eyes again, not even bothering to wipe away the tears. His mind had gone completely blank, and he felt as if he'd just fallen through still and silent air. Everything seemed to go in slow motion, his thoughts slowing down until they almost seemed to crawl.

Death. This was it.

No more thinking he might get rescued. No more wishing or hoping or praying to a god that obviously didn't care. No more thoughts of getting to see his friends again, his family. No more dreams of waking up in Nick's arms, or kissing the Texan on his perfect, soft lips. No more being able to look down into his dark, caring, warm eyes. No, a different fate awaited Greg. A fate that seemed to be long overdue.

The van stopped suddenly, and his eyes wrenched open, his heart going into overdrive.

Should Greg fight or should he just let his kidnapper do what he intended to do?

An eerie silence settled over the world. Everything was so soundless that Greg could hear the other man's footsteps as he walked towards the large double doors at the back of the van, just feet from where Greg was sitting. The man paused for a second outside the vehicle, then threw open the doors.

Greg's abductor was wearing his signature ski mask and a red, green, and white plaid shirt, as well as baggy blue jeans that were torn at both knees. On his hands were cracked, dark mahogany leather gloves. The man reached for Greg's arms and Greg shrunk away. He didn't want his jailer to touch him again, ever. He just wanted it to end. He was so tired of not being in control of his own life.

"Come on, Greggy. Time to get out," the man croaked, his voice harsh, and he gestured for Greg to give him his hand. "This is the last stop."

Greg began to tremble, but he reached out to the other man. He hated himself for being submissive, but what else could he do?

_What else could he do?_

"That's a good boy," the masked man cooed, pulling Greg out of the van, none too gently either. He heaved him into an upright position, and Greg had to reach out almost blindly to hold on to the van to support himself. He was so weak. His ankles and knees ached and throbbed with the weight of his body.

"Don't even think of running away," the man growled from behind his ski mask.

"I don't think I could, even if I wanted to," Greg mumbled, his whole body shaking as if it were a leaf trapped within the walls of a hurricane. Without turning his head, he scanned his surroundings. It appeared as if he was on a deserted street, somewhere in the heart of Las Vegas. He couldn't see any other people, but this place didn't seem like it'd stay so quiet or empty for long. Greg was beginning to doubt that his jailer would kill him right here and now. It was too open. After hiding Greg away for five years, would he just throw caution to the wind and murder his captive in the street?

The man locked the back of the van and turned to Greg, who was still leaning heavily upon the gray vehicle, his knees knocking together.

"You look awful," Greg's abductor noted cheerfully, and he could see the man's eyes through the ski mask – they were glittering cruelly in the light from the far away streetlamps.

"I'd probably look a hell of a lot better if you hadn't kidnapped me," Greg hissed, a flame of anger licking his insides. Now that he had smelled the fresh air, felt the dry desert breeze waft through his hair (which was lank, long, and grimy), he wasn't ready to die. He was still standing. His heart was still pounding out its regular rhythm. His mind was now sharp and clear. He would fight for his freedom.

"I'm going to miss you, you know," the man said, almost sadly. Before Greg could even respond, he was thrown flat on his back by a punch to the right cheekbone. His already battered head connected with the cement sidewalk and he was out cold.

"Finally I get my basement back," the man growled, pulling off his mask before he got back into the gray van and drove away, leaving Greg lying in the rain gutter.

* * *

Drowsily, Greg heard an irritating beeping noise close by his ear. He tried to ignore it and float back to the calm and peaceful darkness that was sleep, but he couldn't. The beeping was too intrusive, too annoying.

"Turn it off," he moaned, turning away from the sound and pushing his right hand under the pillow that his head was resting on.

His eyes flew open. A pillow. He glanced down along his torso and saw a white blanket pulled up to his chest, and he could also see the sleeves of a seemingly much too large hospital gown as well.

He was in a hospital?

"Where am I?" Greg asked, not even fighting the panic in his voice. He tried to sit up, but hands pushed him back down.

"It's all right, Mr. Sanders. You're fine now. You're at the Mountain View Hospital in Las Vegas," someone told him, but that didn't help. Greg began to struggle harder, pushing away the hands and arms that were going to suffocate him, encage him once again.

"NO!" he screamed, trying to get a good look at the people who were surrounding him, but then he felt a prick in his left arm and then he was gone once again, a feeling of something similar to relief washing over him as he surrendered to the beckoning darkness.


	4. Chapter Four

Jim Brass sighed loudly as he lowered himself heavily onto the black chair that was situated behind his desk, which just so happened to be covered with an absurd amount of paper. Letting out an even louder sigh, he randomly picked up the topmost sheet and glanced at it. Budget cuts. Oh boy. He could hardly wait until everyone in the department realized that they wouldn't be getting their Christmas bonuses.

He put the paper back down and rubbed his eyes, exhaling noisily yet again. Maybe he should look into taking a vacation …

A deafening knock at the door jerked Brass out of his thoughts, and he looked up in annoyance. A young detective named Simmons was standing with his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Yes?" Brass asked, not even bothering to sound even remotely pleased to see the young man.

Simmons cleared his throat slightly before saying, "Sir, there's a call on line three for you." Brass looked at the black phone on the desk, realizing for the first time that a red light was flashing.

"Tell them to leave a message," he said, picking up some papers and shuffling them, hoping that the detective would take it as a signal that he was dismissed.

Simmons didn't move.

"Is there a problem?" Brass asked, a growl entering his voice.

Simmons must've understood that he was pushing his luck with Brass, but he stood his ground anyways and said almost haltingly, "Sir, this call … it's about Greg Sanders."

* * *

In the police cruiser, Brass flipped on his siren and lights almost absentmindedly. He wove in and out of traffic without a second's thought, his entire mind focused on getting to Mountain View Hospital as fast as he could. Nothing else mattered – he needed to see Greg. He needed to know if it actually was the man who'd gone missing five years ago, and not some homeless guy who somewhat resembled Greg Sanders. He didn't even want to get his hopes up in case the dental records had been wrong, and the man lying in the hospital actually wasn't him … mistakes could always happen.

He wasn't even going to call the rest of the CSIs until he was absolutely sure that a mistake hadn't been made. Why get their hopes up and then have to tell them that it actually wasn't their Greg? Brass didn't want to put any of them through that. Not after so many years of lost hope had gone by.

After about twenty minutes, Brass pulled up to the front of the hospital, leaving his lights on but turning off the siren. He quickly locked the vehicle and bustled into the busy hospital. Nurses, patients and their families, as well as doctors, filled the waiting room as Brass tried his best to make his way to the counter where a strict looking nurse with glasses sat with a headset on and a computer in front of her.

"Yes?" she asked, not even glancing up.

Brass waited as a woman carrying a crying baby hurried by before saying, "I'm looking for Greg Sanders."

The woman nodded, moved the mouse and clicked a few times. Brass waited, tapping his foot impatiently as he tried his best to not appear overly agitated.

"He's in room 304, in the resting ward. I have to warn you, though – he's …" the nurse said, evidently struggling to find the word she was looking for.

Brass shook his head, indicating that he had no idea what she meant.

The woman licked her lips and leaned forward. "He's had to be sedated already."

"What time was this?" Brass inquired sharply.

She looked down at the computer, obviously looking at his records. "Around 11:10 this morning."

"And what time was he found?"

"Ten o'clock," she told him.

Brass thanked her before turning on his heel and walking as fast as he could towards room 304.

So, not even two hours at the hospital, and Greg (if it even was him) had already been sedated. Brass did not like the sound of that at all. Why had they needed to sedate Greg?

He turned down a hallway and started counting off rooms. 301 … 302 … 303 … 304.

Brass stopped, his hands and feet seeming to go numb. He swallowed and licked his lips nervously. No sound permeated the closed door, and he wondered if Greg was still under.

What if it wasn't even Greg? What if the real Greg was still out there, somewhere? Or would it be more realistic to assume that he was dead?

Brass took a step towards the light wooden door, his hand resting on the silver doorknob. For a second, he didn't think he could go in. What would Greg look like, after years of whatever he'd been through? Would he blame the Las Vegas Crime Lab for not being able to find him? Had he forgotten about everyone?

None of those questions could be answered unless he opened the door and went in. He took a deep breath, listening to the sound of a nurse's footsteps walking down the hall. After she had turned the corner, Brass squared his shoulders, turned the handle, and stepped in.

* * *

Greg was finally trying to force himself to calm down. His mind was still unbearably groggy, every single limb felt like it was weighted down, and he could barely keep his eyes. That was a good thing, though – the almost midday sunlight that was filtering in through the half closed venetian blinds was killer on his eyes. He almost couldn't stand it.

The beeping of the machines around him was also going to drive him crazy (if he wasn't already there). The only beeping he could identify was the one that matched his heart beat. All the others he had no clue about, and therefore he wondered why the hell they were even in the room with him. The only really important thing was that he was still alive, right? What else could those absurdly annoying machines be measuring?

The soft click of the door broke into his thoughts, and Greg was aware that someone else was in the room with him. Right off the bat, he knew that this person wasn't a doctor or a nurse. The people who were attending to him strode into the room with a purpose. The person who had entered almost appeared as if he (or she) didn't know what s/he was doing here.

Against his will, curiosity got the better of him, and he opened his right eye and peered up at the person standing close to his bed.

"Brass?" he croaked, his other eye wrenching open as he stared open mouthed at Jim Brass, the last person he had expected to see.

To Greg, it seemed as if Brass had aged ten years instead of five. The man's dark brown hair was even thinner (and a lot more gray), and he had gained a couple more pounds around the middle. But there was no mistaking him – it definitely was Captain Jim Brass.

Without saying a word, he stumbled out of the room, the door shutting behind him, leaving Greg bewildered and almost a little frightened.

Out in the hall, Brass was struggling to grasp his cell phone with completely numb fingers. Wordlessly, he dialed Grissom's number, which he knew by heart. His longtime friend picked up on the second ring.

Without waiting for a hello, Brass said, "It's Greg."

"What?"

"Greg – he's alive."

"Are you sure?"

Brass took a deep breath and exhaled in a shuddering fashion. "Yes, I'm sure. It's him, Gil. Mountain View Hospital, room 304. Round everyone up. Meet me here."

Grissom quickly said all right before hanging up, no doubt to contact everyone else and get them to the hospital as soon as possible. In the meantime, Brass decided he would just stay out in the hall. He needed to take a few minutes before going back into the room … before looking down into Greg's familiar dark brown eyes. He almost couldn't withstand seeing the once vibrant young man lying in the bed, his body in shambles.

He put his cell phone back into his pocket and rubbed his hands together. His mind was flying in what seemed like thirty different directions at once, and he couldn't keep up. He had absolutely no idea what to do – should he go sit with Greg or stay out in the hall and wait for everyone else?

He glanced over his shoulder at the shut door, knowing exactly who was on the other side … but after just being with Greg for less than three minutes, Brass knew that their Greg was gone. He might be there in body, but he wasn't there in soul, heart, or mind.

For the first time in five years, he felt a single tear escape from his lower eyelid on the right side of his face and cascade gently down his cheek, falling onto his clean and reflective black shoe.

He decided to wait out in the hall.


	5. Chapter Five

Nick sighed loudly as he put his feet up onto the cluttered and dusty glass coffee table. He stretched his right hand out towards the empty couch, trying to find the remote hidden amidst the folds of his faded and tattered navy blue A&M blanket. Once he located the elusive remote, he pushed the power button and the large flat screen TV burst into life. Lucky for him, the football game was about to start. Too bad he didn't even know who was playing.

Nick had long since lost interest in sports. He no longer kept up with his favorite hockey and football teams … he no longer went to games … he no longer bothered or cared. He'd lost interest in a lot of his favorite pastimes when Greg went missing.

Some people out there who had lost loved ones somehow regained their old hobbies, but Nick hadn't. He couldn't. He used to watch the games with Greg, even though the younger man had no interest in any sports whatsoever. He, Greg, and Warrick would usually bet on who they thought would win the Grey Cup or the Stanley Cup. Not anymore. Not since five years ago. Five years ago on this day, to be exact.

It was kind of sad, honestly. Nick still remembered the date and time that he found out about Greg's kidnapping. If he wanted to get even more technical, he could probably find out the time frame for when Greg was abducted, but he didn't. He didn't want to bring up the past. Everyone else had already moved on, moved past the tragedy. Everyone else had resigned Greg to an untimely death. Everyone, that is, except Nick. He didn't know how.

Sure, he'd been sent to see psychologist after psychologist, but none had been able to help him cope. He'd had to do it himself, and this was where he had ended up … watching a football game that he would end up turning off halfway through because it hurt too much. He had ended up in an empty house, barely able to sleep at night, and every day he would get up to go slave away at a job that was slowly killing him.

Everyone could tell that Nick was dying, but no one could do anything about it. What was there to be done, anyways? Everything had already been said. They had all told Nick that he had to move past the whole ordeal, move past Greg, but he hadn't been able to do it. He couldn't let the younger man go, and that was that.

So just like everyone else had become accustomed to the fact that Greg was dead, they also began to accept the idea that soon Nick would be deceased too.

The Texan sighed theatrically again, muting the TV as a large slew of ads interrupted the game. Ford and beer commercials. How original, and yet how smart. Of course the corporations would target the middle-aged class of people who were watching the football game. Of course they would advertise pickup trucks and beer. Gee, what else would males be interested in?

Nick's cell phone rang, the ringtone almost invasive in the silence of the large house.

He looked over at it on the kitchen counter as it continued to ring, debating with himself about whether or not he should answer it. Usually on his days off, Nick just let it go to his voice mail. Sometimes it was important, but generally it was nothing to get excited over. Most of the time, it was just his sisters calling to see if he'd met a girl yet. For some reason, they still didn't understand that he was gay and that he never wanted to fall in love again.

The phone had fallen silent, and Nick's attention was returned to the TV, where the score of the game was being displayed. He was just about to un-mute it when his cell began to ring _again_.

"You have to be kidding me," the Texan said as he lumbered to his feet. It must be important if whoever was calling wasn't willing to leave a message. It had better not be a damned telemarketer informing him that he'd won a trip to Bermuda.

He picked up his cell phone, flipped it open, and glanced at the name. Grissom. Why was the head of the graveyard shift calling him on his day off? Hopefully there wasn't some huge murder that had happened and now Nick was needed to do what he did best and solve the case. Frankly, he was too tired. Too done.

And why hadn't he resigned yet, like he'd been planning to for the past five years …?

"Hello?" Nick answered, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind. It'd just be easier to find out what the older man wanted.

"Nick, where are you?"

The Texan was struck dumb for a moment. There was an air of urgency and haste in Grissom's voice. Usually the older man was composed, in control of his emotions, but not now.

"I'm at home. What's happened? What's wrong?"

"How fast can you get to Mountain View Hospital?" Grissom asked, interrupting him.

Nick felt his blood turn to ice in his veins, and his pulse quickened dramatically. He swallowed and said, "Half an hour, probably. But why?"

Nick heard Grissom mutter something to someone else before saying, "Okay, we'll all meet you there in half an hour."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened!" the Texan said loudly, fighting to keep his voice down. His chest was heaving, and he felt shivers trailing up and down his spine. If someone was hurt … if someone was dying … he needed to know. Oh God, don't let it be Warrick.

"They found him. They found Greg," Grissom responded, his voice hoarse, and then a click as the line went dead.

Nick dropped his cell phone. His brand-spanking new cell phone that he had just bought on Monday was dropped to the cold, merciless tiles of the kitchen floor, and he didn't care.

_Greg … Greg had been found._

Nick felt himself drop as well, his knees connecting with the floor. His hand groped for the counter as he tried to steady himself.

_He'd been found._

Five years. Five years to the day. About 1825 days. One thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five days without Greg, and now he'd been found.

In a flash, Nick was on his feet, sprinting to the front door. On his way out, he grasped his car keys, leaving his TV on, his front door unlocked, and his new cell phone on the floor. At that moment, who cared?

_Greg had been found!_


End file.
